


Tongue-Tied

by dunedinparsley



Category: History Boys - All Media Types
Genre: Communication, Emotional Intimacy, M/M, wholesome tags for a non-wholesome text
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-18 08:30:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14209215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dunedinparsley/pseuds/dunedinparsley
Summary: Dakin and Irwin aren't great at the traditional 'lovers' things. Like saying they're in love.





	Tongue-Tied

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings: symptoms of influenza, non-explicit sex.

He can see it on Irwin's tongue, like every counter argument and scolding reprimand. He doesn't think he's being cocky, but then, cocky people never do. It's there in the seam of his mouth, where Dakin liked to drag the pad of his thumb. He felt like he was waiting once more for his teacher to give him something to argue against or at least fight for, he couldn't take the first words himself. Maybe that was what Irwin had been going on about, taking things slow, relearning each other as Stuart and Tom. He still liked Irwin's name in his mouth more than ‘Tom’ and Irwin had taken to calling him pet names, so really that plan had gone to shit.  
  
The first time that Irwin gets up the guts to say it Dakin is sick, blindingly and out of the blue struck down by influenza. When Dakin whined that this couldn't be the flu, he'd _had_ the flu before, the doctor had informed him that what he was describing was a cold, and that he had to understand that a flu was more serious, that he needed to be careful, and his lungs didn't seem quite right, so come back if anything changes to check for pneumonia.  
  
His family still lived rurally, so it was Irwin's hand on his elbow gently steering him home. Irwin knew his home now, didn't judge the half arsed dichotomy of chaos/order. He made Dakin's bed while he bathed, and while he knew that the proper thing to do would be comfort him, pretended not to hear him throwing up. Dakin needed a semblance of control, and he could barely speak for pain in his throat. ‘Shame’ was a word he liked out of his vocabulary, and so Irwin did nothing that could invoke it.  
  
They napped, once Dakin had taken the drugs given - Irwin above the sheets, Dakin below. The next time he threw up he started crying. Irwin had never seen him cry before. It was the hot sticky saline of sickness, and the helpless sobs of a man who didn't know what to do. Irwin pushed back his sweaty hair and kissed his cheeks and forehead. "Sh, sh... I love you."  
  
He probably thought that Dakin hadn't heard through the haze of the fever, and to be fair he did feel uncertain, for a while, that the words weren't a figment of his imagination. Then he got better, and he saw that fall of his lower lip, the stare trying to distance itself, the remnants of a teacher’s guilty affection. Dakin could barely look at Irwin for a week after the sickness passed, too ashamed. Irwin had seen him puke, kissed his clammy hands, cooked for him, seen him cry. Dakin _knew_ he shouldn’t allow for the tension. The fact that Irwin was kind to him shouldn’t have made him so furious, but it did.  
  
Irwin's shoulders were tense over their Wednesday, one o’clock lunch, scheduled thus as to make sure it happened _at least_ once a week. Dakin wanted to soothe the knots of his neck, knew exactly where to press his fingers to make Irwin relax, then to smile. Instead, they argued about the artistic integrity of Robert Browning as a representation of the Victorian Era in the middle of a public library in the tone of a lovers' quarrel then almost fell over each other laughing.  
  
Once Irwin said it Dakin felt its burn in his mouth. He didn't know that phrase, not outside of his family. He cared, sure, always, friends and girlfriends, but there was little past the surface. But Irwin let him take off his glasses. The words choked him, and stubborn as he was, he couldn't break the resistance in his larynx and soft palate.  
  
When they finally moved in together, an unspoken agreement, Irwin had ceased his attempts of hiding it, had once even said it before leaving for work as if it were something he said everyday. Only the tension in his shoulders and the violent shake of his hand on his cane gave him away. Dakin wanted to kiss his knuckles and tear all the sinful ink from his fingers. He made dinner instead, and kissed Irwin silly up against their door.  
  
Irwin knew. He had to. Sure, he was an anxious fucking mess of sharp contrasts, but Dakin did nothing to hide his affection for Irwin. Quite to the contrary, Irwin had learned years ago that every biting retort and question of morality was as much a token of care as a kiss to his palm, just as a debate over the dinner table was equivalent to him dropping to his knees. Irwin used to be a cathexis, an earthquake through Dakin's life that dominated his waking hours, but was now his rebuilt city. He touched the walls and read the books, spoke his words, but rather than his whole drive being devoted to the temple of Irwin's mind and the cuts of his tongue, it was the constant periphery, the absorption of Irwin into his skin, his life.  
  
The first time that they laughed while fucking was the groundbreaking moment for Dakin, the shiver through his rebuilt city. Though he'd never taken sex all that seriously, never tied it to emotion, he _had_ tied it to his pride, and when his heel met Irwin's shoulder blade in some twisted acrobatics and Irwin cackled, buried his face in Dakin's shoulder, he was next to offended. Then he saw them in the mirror, bright red, and they were detaching from one another in absolute giggles. Dakin didn't even mind the lack of an orgasm, because Irwin had put his bloody glasses back on and they were fogging up with body heat. Dakin shook his head as his laughter died down, and he tugged the glasses back off, put them on the bedside table. When Irwin _allowed_ himself to look confused it was a beautiful thing. His eyes in their shadowed skin, head slightly to the side. Dakin let his forehead rest on Irwin's. There was still the resonance of laughter. "I love you," Dakin whispered. Irwin took him in for a moment, then his face broke into a resplendent grin.  
  
"I love you." It felt like empowerment. Dakin breathed the words into Irwin’s mouth, and they were stuck together, tongue-tied.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope this was enjoyable for the shoebox that is the 'History Boys' fandom!
> 
> I wrote this about a year ago with the hope of making it bigger, then realised it wasn't going to happen - so, here it is, all on its lonesome. It is, for the most part, unedited, so please forgive any errors.
> 
> Please do review, share etc., or come chat with me on tumblr at thomtrebond.tumblr.com - always down for History Boys rambling!


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